


Nailed It!

by el_spirito



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Baking, Getting Together, Hurt Napoleon, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, One Shot, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-21
Updated: 2018-06-21
Packaged: 2019-05-20 15:31:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14897199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/el_spirito/pseuds/el_spirito
Summary: It's Illya's birthday and Napoleon is going to make him a cake, even if the whole universe is against him.





	Nailed It!

**Author's Note:**

  * For [el3anorrigby](https://archiveofourown.org/users/el3anorrigby/gifts).



> For the lovely el3anorrigby! I hope you like it! And many thanks to 221Browncoat as ever for being a wonderful beta and cheerleader :)

It's four days before Illya's birthday when Solo is mugged. In his own defense, Napoleon wasn’t expecting to be beaten and robbed on his way back to the safe house. Illya would say that was a weakness rather than a defense, of course, and he might not be entirely incorrect. Still,  regardless of the degree to which it’s his fault, Napoleon is completely taken by surprise when something hits him on the back of the head as he slips down a dark alley. It sends him sprawling to the ground, and he grunts with the heavy impact his body makes on the rough cobblestones. He feels his cheek split with the impact and his head hurts like  _ hell _ , and everything goes a bit fuzzy around the edges. He plants a hand on the ground to lever himself up and then howls as someone stomps on it, curling over the injured limb. That, of course, leaves his back open and soon there’s a flurry of kicks over his kidneys that leaves him retching in pain. 

 

People are talking above him, Irish accents thick, and then someone pats him down and pulls his wallet out of his jacket pocket. There’s a shout from somewhere -- he doesn’t think it’s from one of his attackers, but he isn’t at all certain. 

“Sorry mate,” the man says as he throws the now-empty wallet in front of Napoleon. Someone kicks him once more for good riddance, and then Solo is left mercifully alone, curled in on himself and panting. Everything is throbbing, but the worst of it is coming from his face and hand, and maybe his head. He’s dizzy enough that sitting up turns out to be almost impossible, and he ends up slumped over in a position that only distantly resembles sitting. 

“What happened?” someone says, and Napoleon groans, then leans over and spits out blood and - _ huh _ \- a shard of one of is teeth. Something brushes up against him, something with fur but that’s kind of wet. A dog? “I’ll call the police there, lad, don’t ye fret none.”  

“No,” Napoleon says, or tries to, but his face is swelling up and his tongue feels thick and uncooperative. The dog makes a concerned sound.

“What’s that, laddie?” Solo blinks and  looks up into the gruff face of an old man with a spectacular mustache and a flat cap, and tries again to voice his objection. 

“Get my brother,” he slurs, and fumbles his fake ID out of his wallet. He holds it out with a trembling hand. “‘S my address.” 

The man takes the card and holds it close to his face, squinting at the tiny letters. “Edward Walker,” he reads. “Oh, ye’re from just down the road, aren’t ye?” 

“Mm,” Napoleon manages. He hopes it sounds appropriately affirmative. The man takes his cap off and runs a hand through his thinning white hair. 

“I’m not sure I should leave ya here,” he says. His dog whines again and he makes a shushing noise. “There now, Kitchener, easy, lad. What if those gobshites come back and have another go at ye, huh? Wouldn’ feel right t’ just leave ye here!”

“I c’n walk,” Napoleon says. He’s pretty sure he’s not lying. 

The old man doesn’t seem to agree; he eyes Napoleon skeptically and frowns. 

“Tougher than I look,” Solo says. “Not my first rodeo.” 

The man’s expression softens, just a little. At least, that’s how Napoleon interprets it. He doesn’t entirely trust his own judgement at the moment. 

“Fought in the war, did ye?” the man says. Napoleon nods and immediately regrets it as everything spins around him. “Easy there, Walker. Ye’ll be alright. You sure you don’t want me calling the police?” 

“I’m sure,” Napoleon says. “Jus’ need t’ get home and rest.”

“Right then.” The man holds out his hand, and it’s Napoleon’s turn to look skeptical. “C’mon then,” he says, wiggling his fingers. “I’m tougher than I look.” 

Solo looks at him again and heaves out a sigh. “C’n I at least know the name of the man I might kill?”

The man chuckles and shakes his head. “Ach lad, ye’re big enough, but I didn’t fight through the Great War t’ get taken out by some young eejit. Name’s Danny O’Shea, by the way.”

“Alright,” Napoleon says. “Danny. If you’re sure.” 

In response Danny thrusts his hand forward again, and Napoleon grips it with his good hand. A second later he’s on his feet -- old man really is stronger than he looks -- but he isn’t sure it’s a good thing. He isn’t even sure if he’s upright or not, the way everything is waving up and down around him, but Danny tucks an arm below his shoulders and steadies him for a second. 

“Easy now,” Danny says. “You’re alright there, lad.”  

“Yep,” Napoleon says, sounding only somewhat strangled. Danny gives him another moment to collect himself and gain what little equilibrium he can before they start forward in a stumbling shuffle. Napoleon’s feet don’t seem to want to do what he’s telling them, and they definitely aren’t interested in going straight, but Danny does a good enough job at keeping them aimed toward the safe house. His dog keeps pace with them, collar jingling as he trots at their side.

“Ye’re more muscle than not, eh laddie?” Danny says, just a little breathless. Napoleon grunts. 

“Okay?” he manages. 

“Just fine,” Danny says. “Just surprised at the heft of ye.” 

“Yes, well,” Solo says, because he doesn’t know what else to say. “So, uh, Kitchener?” he adds after a second. “Were you part of his army?” 

“Aye,” Danny says. “Surprised an American like ye have heard of him.” 

Napoleon shrugs, sort of, too exhausted to form any sort of coherent reply that will explain why he’s so acquainted with Irish military history without explaining that he has to be versed in it for his cover with the IRA.

“I was in the 16th division, 48th brigade,” Danny says. “One of the Royal Dublin Fusiliers.” There’s a pride to his voice, but it’s tinged with a sadness that Napoleon knows all too well. “But that was a long time ago, now,” Danny says. 

“Not always,” Napoleon says. 

“No,” Danny says. “Not always.” 

They round a corner and the little flat he and Brown has been renting appears, and Napoleon has to lock his knees to prevent them from turning to jelly with relief. 

“That yer place?” Danny asks. 

“Mm-hmm,” Napoleon says. Danny steers him up to the door and props Napoleon against the jamb, then knocks firmly. Brown opens it almost immediately -- probably waiting anxiously in the front room, as usual -- and frowns, then startles when he sees Napoleon. 

“Edward?” he says, voice pitching up. “What in the hell’s happened?” 

“Got beat up,” Solo says, eloquently. “Danny helped me home.” 

“Oh,” Brown says. Danny helps Napoleon stand up and then passes him to Brown, which is maybe one of the most embarrassing things Solo has had to endure in a long while. 

“You got him, lad?” 

“Yeah, thanks,” Brown says, bundling Napoleon into his side and holding him upright. Napoleon suspects he’s blushing underneath all of the blood and bruising but doesn’t have the energy to complain. “I sure appreciate you bringing him home like this.” 

“Ach, well, it’s the least I could do,” Danny says. “Not like I could leave him in the road, could I, looking all pathetic and sad.” 

“Thanks for that,” Napoleon slurs. Brown shoots him a look somewhere between disapproval and concern, and Danny chuckles. 

“Well I’d best head home. My walk’s already taken longer than usual, and I wouldn’t want the missus worrying.” 

“Thanks Danny,” Napoleon says. Brown nods enthusiastically. 

“Really, thank you for looking out for my brother,” he says. 

Danny just grunts and waves a hand, then whistles to Kitchener and lopes down the street. Brown watches him for half a second before forcefully closing the door and turning to Solo. 

“Solo, what the hell happened out there?” 

“I got beat up,” Napoleon says. He’s pretty sure he said that already. “Clubbed me in the head.” 

There’s a sudden stinging at the back of his head -- probably Brown touching the wound -- and Napoleon grunts and nearly goes down. 

“Shit, you’re gonna pass out,” Brown says, steering him to the couch. “Put your head between your knees. I’ll call UNCLE.” 

“‘M fine,” Napoleon says, and Brown actually laughs at him. 

“You should see yourself, Solo. Kuryakin’s gonna kill me.” 

Napoleon blinks. “What?” he says. 

Brown continues talking as he heads into the other room to make the call. “If not him, then Teller. She’s scarier than he is, if I’m being honest.” 

Napoleon hears the words but can’t quite understand them; his head is spinning and he’s impossibly dizzy. Sighing, he grabs a pillow and carefully lays down, unsurprised and maybe a little resigned when consciousness finally fails him. 

xxxx

The next few hours pass in snapshots of awareness. At one point he wakes vomiting and Brown turns him on his side, holding a bowl in one hand and keeping Napoleon somewhat upright with the other. Another time he comes around, barely, and hears Brown speaking heatedly into the phone in the kitchen. A third time, there’s someone new, poking at his hand and his side and his head and murmuring things he can’t understand. He struggles to get away from whoever is hurting him, but something is holding him down and the inability to move makes him panic even more, flashing back to Rome and Victoria and that utter  _ bastard  _ Uncle Rudy. 

He’s hyperventilating before he knows it and everything hurts. 

“Hey, easy now Solo, easy,” a voice says, near his ear. “It’s Brown, it’s Sam. You know me, dontcha? We’re just fixing you up a bit before exfil gets here, okay? You’re okay. We’ll get you out, don’t you worry.” 

“Hurts,” Napoleon says, because it does, and he doesn’t know what else to say. 

“I know,” Brown says. “They beat the shit out of you. But you’ll be okay, just hold on.” 

“Okay,” Napoleon whispers. He isn’t sure how long he lasts before he passes out again. 

xxxx

Two days later, he’s back in London, back in his own king size bed with feather pillows and his silk robe, and life is about as good as it can be when you’ve just had the snot beaten out of you by a bunch of juvenile delinquents. 

In fact, it would be perfect except for one little problem: Illya’s birthday is now only two days away. Not that there’s anything wrong with having July 25th as a birthday, exactly, but when he decided to make Illya’s favorite cake -- a Russian napoleon, with lots of intricate layering -- he was anticipating having two hands to do it with. In fact, he’s been planning the whole thing out for months -- he got the authentic recipe for the cake from a sweet little  _ babushka  _ who lived down the street from their safe house in Kiev, and the last time they went to Belgium he bought the best dark chocolate he could find. He even used some of his more questionable contacts to procure Illya’s favorite brand of Russian vodka on this side of the Wall.  

All that’s left this morning is to head down to the market, thankfully only a few blocks away, buy fresh eggs, butter, and strawberries, then go to Illya’s flat and make sure the cake is done before Peril gets back from his mission in Portugal tonight. It would be simple enough, but Solo is having a hard time even getting out of bed this morning, both physically and mentally. He’s stiffened up now and everything has had a chance to settle in and  _ hurt _ . His head is still throbbing and occasionally dizzying, and his left hand is in a cast up to his elbow with the threat of potential surgery looming in the background. He’s still pissing blood, though he’s been reassured his kidneys are only bruised, and the resulting back pain makes walking a challenge. 

The thought of getting out of bed is not a pleasant one. 

Still, Napoleon is nothing if not determined, and he’s not about to let his hard work go to waste, so he hauls himself out of bed with a minimum of grunting and contemplates a shower for all of a minute before deciding it’s not worth it to cover the cast and take his arm out of its sling. It takes some finagling with only one working arm, but eventually Solo is dressed in a dark blue sweater because even in July, London is overcast and breezy, khaki slacks, and penny loafers that don’t take a lot of bending over to put on. His hair is left in its natural, unruly state, and he can’t even bring himself to brush the curls out of his face. 

Finally Napoleon slides his wallet into his back pocket and slings his tote bag over his shoulder, then steps out of his apartment, feeling a pathetic sense of pride at having gotten dressed and out of the house. Said pride is quickly shattered when it takes a good three minutes to fumble his keys out of his pocket, figure out how to hold the door closed, and lock it with only one functioning hand. 

The walk to the market is slow and Napoleon is grateful for the warmth offered by his sweater. He’s limping by the time he gets there, and wheezing just a little thanks to his banged-up ribs, and decides to stop by his favorite bakery for breakfast and to give himself a bit of a break. 

A cup of coffee, a croissant, and a few startled glances later, Napoleon hauls himself up again and walks (limps) the last block to the market. He heads to Marjorie’s stand and offers her a smile as he approaches, but she blanches and stares with wide eyes as he draws near. 

“Mr. Solo,” she says, reaching a tentative hand toward his face. 

“I’m okay,” he says, taking her outstretched hand and patting it. “It looks worse than it is.” 

“I very much doubt that,” Marjorie says. She’s a sweet little old lady, running a small farm essentially on her own following her husband’s death, and Napoleon has been stopping by her stall in the market for months. He’s grown rather fond of her, if he’s being honest.

“I just need to pick up a few things,” Napoleon says. “A half dozen eggs and butter, and I’ll get a few strawberries from Tom down the way.” 

Marjorie nods and pulls out a small carton of eggs, and a little box of butter, still eying Solo skeptically. “What’s so important that you had to come out in that state, hmm?” she asks, as he pulls his wallet out and rests it on the table to awkwardly rifle through it. 

Napoleon shrugs lopsidedly and hides a wince. “Gotta make a cake for a friend,” he says. “Only happens once a year, after all, injured or not.” 

Marjorie tuts a little and shakes her head, standing and gesturing behind her. “Sit down, Napoleon,” she says, patting the little stool sitting in her stall. “I’ll go talk to ol’ Tom for you.”

Napoleon’s face flushes warm and he shakes his head. “I’m -- I’m fine, Marjorie, that’s really not necessary.” 

Marjorie shoves him gently into her stall in response and picks his basket up. “I’ll be back in a tick,” she says. “Mind the stall while I’m gone.” 

Napoleon settles on the stool with a sigh, but he can’t deny that it eases the ache of his various injuries. It’s only a few moments before Marjorie comes back, basket full. “I talked him down,” she says, gesturing to a carton of strawberries and a handful of change. 

“Used your womanly wiles, huh?” Napoleon says. Marjorie pats his hand. 

“I just told him you were unwell, Mr. Solo,” she says. “We may be ought but a bunch of old farmers, but we care about you, lad.” 

Napoleon clears his throat. “Well,” he says. “I, uh.” He pauses for a moment and shakes his head. “Thanks,” he says finally. 

Marjorie smiles and hands him his basket. “Now I expect you to use that money I saved you to order a cab home, you hear?” 

Napoleon grins lopsidedly and nods. “Yes ma’am, I will,” he says. Marjorie pats his cheek. 

“Good lad,” she says. “And I don’t want to hear from you again until you’ve had a chance to heal up.” 

At that, Napoleon lets out a chuckle. “Oh, you don’t have to worry about that,” he says. “As soon as this birthday’s over I’m gonna sleep for a week.” 

xxxx

True to his word, Napoleon takes a cab to Illya’s flat, then offers up a prayer of gratitude to whoever’s listening that the elevator is working. Unlocking the door turns out to be easier than locking his was, and he kicks it shut behind him as he enters. Illya’s flat is sparsely decorated, but thoughtful; everything is neat and tidy and in its place, and the decor he does have is tasteful and well-placed. The kitchen is what really shines --not as great as Napoleon’s, of course, but pretty close, with two ovens and plenty of counter space to work on.

Solo gathers all his ingredients together and rummages through Illya’s cupboards, managing to pull down the bowls one-handed before rounding up the utensils and measuring cups he needs to use. Measuring out the water, vodka, and vinegar is pleasantly doable with his good hand, and he can manage the whisking by curling his bad hand around the bowl to hold it in place. He tries to sift the flour for all of two seconds before he decides that it’s just going to have to work unsifted, and cutting in the butter is a nightmare. 

He’s starting to think that maybe this wasn’t the greatest idea. 

He gets the base to a consistency that’s almost right before his hand starts cramping, and then he starts to add the liquid mixture. He’s supposed to knead it for a while -- he can’t quite read the handwriting on his recipe, courtesy of shaky Cyrillic written by a feeble old lady -- but he decides to just go with kneading until combined. At least, in theory. He ends up kneading until he can’t anymore and calls it good, texture be damned, then sticks the whole wad of dough in the fridge with a frustrated huff. 

The recipe says the dough is meant to rest for either 70 or 400 minutes, and frankly at this point one is as good as the other as far as Solo is concerned. He sets a timer, a white little thing that ticks loudly, and settles into an Illya-sized overchair with the timer on the side table. It only takes a few moments for him to drift off. 

It feels like only a few moments more before the timer goes off, high-pitched ringing only serving to ratchet up his headache. Napoleon levers himself out of the chair with a grunt and pulls the dough out of the fridge, separating it into twelve mostly even balls. Then it’s back into the fridge for another half an hour, in which time Napoleon turns on the oven, gets rather dizzy and nearly vomits, takes one of the pain pills prescribed by O’Reilly, and twice loudly curses Illya’s taste. 

After that, he presses out each of the twelve balls until flat and stabs them with a fork to prevent the pastry from puffing up in the oven. He has to bake them all individually, and by about the seventh he nearly gives up altogether until he decides that he’s come this far and he’s going to finish the damn thing if it kills him. 

Once the pastry’s all been baked he starts assembling the actual cake with much less finesse than usual, slapping custard in and spreading it as best he can before trying to put the pastry layers in without cracking them and only somewhat succeeding. He’s so exhausted by this point that he can’t say he even really cares. 

Finally it’s done, with just some chocolate to drizzle on before serving and the berries to go on top, and Napoleon swears passionately at it as he sticks it in the fridge for the last time.

“Well,” he says to the room at large, “I’m never doing that again.” 

xxxx

Illya’s door is unlocked. Gaby is immediately at high alert, drawing her gun and quietly pushing the door open, sweeping the room. Napoleon is sprawled out on the couch, unconscious or sleeping, and Gaby desperately wants to check on him. Still, she likes to think she’s been learning a lot and she sure as hell knows better than to leave the rest of the flat unchecked. 

Illya’s flat is small and it only takes a few moments to check, and then she’s back in the living room. She tucks her gun back into its holster and closes the front door, locking it softly behind her, then turns back to Napoleon. He looks like shit, pale and bruised and with the hint of a bulky cast poking out from beneath the sleeve of his sweater. 

“What the hell happened to you?” she murmurs quietly, sweeping a stray curl away from his forehead. She frowns as she notices a smear of flour across one cheek, then turns to look at the kitchen. There’s a stack of dirty dishes in the sink, and closer inspection reveals more flour strewn about the counters, plus a few splatters of something that looks -- and tastes -- like custard. Gaby shakes her head and opens the fridge, immediately noticing the cake sitting in it. 

“Oh Napoleon,” she says. “You idiot.” 

She pulls the gift she has for Illya out of her purse and sets it on the table; it’s a small watercolor painting she got from a local artist in Kazakhstan mostly because she thinks he’ll like it, and only partly because she wants to prove that Solo isn’t the only one with good taste. Then she slips off her heels and rolls up her sleeves and gets to work cleaning up the kitchen. 

xxxx

Illya is exhausted by the time he gets to his apartment. They’ve all been on different missions, lately, and his was in Colombia; his sleep schedule is completely out of whack and he’s looking forward to just collapsing on his bed. 

What he isn’t expecting is to walk into his flat and immediately have Gaby shush him and gesture at his couch, where a battered Napoleon is sleeping. 

“What is going on here?” he hisses under his breath, flicking a quick glance at Solo to make sure he hasn’t wakened the other man. 

“Happy birthday,” Gaby says, standing on her tiptoes and drawing Illya down to kiss him on the cheek. “I’ve put your present on the table, and Napoleon’s made you a cake.” 

“He made me a cake?” Illya repeats, looking more closely at the other man. “But he looks like shit.” 

Gaby shrugs. “See for yourself,” she says. Illya obliges, opening the fridge and staring in amazement at a little napoleon cake sitting primly on the middle shelf. 

“But how did he know?” Illya says, looking from the cake to Gaby and then back again. “I have only mentioned this cake once, maybe twice.” 

Gaby gives a little huff and shakes her head. “Honestly?” she says. “I think he’s in love with you.” 

Illya blinks. “...who?” he says after a minute. 

“ _ Solo _ you idiot,” Gaby says, “though I’m not sure he realizes it either. The two of you, I mean really..” 

Illya’s brain seems to be moving at half its normal rate. “You think Napoleon is --” here he pauses to clear his throat “in love with  _ me _ ?” 

“Yes,” she says, popping her hands on her hips. “And you love him back, Kuryakin.” She moves forward and cups one cheek in her hand. “Don’t be afraid,” she whispers. Illya swallows thickly and nods against her hand. 

“Good man,” Gaby says, pulling back. “I’ve got a mission to debrief with Waverly, so I’ll leave you two to it.” 

“Thanks,” Illya says. 

“Look out for him,” Gaby says. “Lord knows he can’t look out for himself.” 

“I will,” Illya says. “I promise.” 

Gaby slips out the door with one last hug, and leaves Illya alone in his kitchen, with Napoleon snoring through what appears to be a broken nose on the couch. He opens the fridge and looks  at the cake one last time, glances wistfully at his bedroom door, and finally pulls his overstuffed armchair next to the couch, and settles in to sleep. 

xxxx

Napoleon wakes to see a rather large Russian puttering about in the kitchen, humming under his breath. Solo blinks, confused, and then pushes himself upright, groaning in pain as stiffened muscles and bruises protest. There’s sunlight streaming through the windows, and Napoleon realizes with a pang of embarrassment that he must have spent the night on Illya’s couch.

“You are awake, Cowboy,” Illya says. 

“Unfortunately,” Solo grumbles, wincing as he tries to get to his feet. Illya is in the living room in an instant, tucking surprisingly gentle arms under Napoleon’s and helping him to the dining room table. 

“You should be in bed,” Illya says. 

“Probably,” Napoleon agrees, settling into a chair. He realizes for the first time that the other man is wearing an apron and frowns. “What’ve you been doing?” 

Illya shrugs. “I think it is very difficult to slice strawberries with one hand, no?” 

Napoleon feels his cheeks flush, but nods. 

“Is nothing to be ashamed of,” Illya says. “The cake looks very good.” So saying, he brings Napoleon’s cake around to the table and smiles at him. He’s drizzled chocolate on top and the sliced strawberries have been placed carefully around it. It looks… a little more lopsided than Solo’s usual meticulous work, but it’s not too bad, considering. 

Napoleon clears his throat. “Well, happy birthday Peril. Glad you made it home safely.” 

“Thank you,” Illya says. “I am glad you were mostly safe.” 

Napoleon shrugs. “Turns out that Ireland has its fair share of muggings too,” he says, “but it’s not too bad.”

“Well you can’t take your medication without eating first,” Illya says, then raises an eyebrow. “You  _ are _ taking pain pills, yes?” 

“Yes,” Napoleon says with a sigh. “Much as I don’t want to.” 

“How does cake sound for breakfast? I’ve heard the baker is very good.” 

Napoleon laughs and shakes his head. “That sounds great. But you have to take the first bite, you know, birthday rules.” 

Illya rolls his eyes but carefully cuts two pieces of cake and sets them on his little dessert plates, then places a fork next to each. 

“Thank you for this,” Illya says, fork hovering over the cake. “It has been a long time since I have eaten a napoleon cake.” 

Napoleon nods and gestures impatiently at the cake, then tries not to stare too hard as Illya takes his first bite. It’s tempting to watch him closely of course, and to scrutinize every facial twitch, but Solo knows well the awkwardness of eating with an audience, and so pretends to be very interested in his own piece. 

Kuryakin lets out a small groan. “This is delicious,” he says, going in for a second bite almost immediately. Solo smiles and takes his own bite. 

It’s disgusting. He must have had a bit too much flour, and most likely his hand wasn’t as steady as he thought it was when pouring the vinegar. The result is a cake with a strange texture and a custard with enough vinegar to make his eyes water. He very nearly spits it out, but forces himself to swallow, feeling his cheeks heating up and his stomach sinking. 

“Illya,” he chokes out. “That’s awful! I’m so sorry, I was making it for your birthday but the damn concussion and my stupid arm made it hard, and I thought I had everything right,” he says, his voice rising in pitch. “I should have just bought you a cake, and I still can, so you can still have a wonderful birthday because I wouldn’t want it ruined --” 

He’s cut off very abruptly by a pair of lips pressing against his and blinks for a second, stunned, before returning the kiss. He pulls away after a few moments and looks at Illya, his heart fluttering. 

“Peril?” he whispers. 

Illya presses their foreheads together and laughs. “Shut up, Cowboy,” he says. “You’re a terrible spy, but you’re not so bad at birthdays.” 

“Oh,” Napoleon says. “Good.” 

 

And then he leans forward and kisses him again.


End file.
